


You Are Flesh and Blood

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Banter, Casual Sex, Companionable Snark, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hair Pulling, Humour, Kissing, Multiple Orgasms, No Angst, No Romance, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Snark, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24739636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: Two chaotic neutrals walk into a— Uh. I mean, ah.A sorceress and a bard walk into a tavern... and then they bang!"No," she says, instantly and rather more loudly than would be appropriate given they are now standing within socially-acceptable talking distance, but a definitive stance seems like the way to go here. Mixed messages tend to get messy.Jaskier's face doesn't so much fall as jauntily careen into oblivion."Well," he haughtily exclaims, face puckered and lute sassily cocked by his hip.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 18
Kudos: 100





	You Are Flesh and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Dipping my toes into Yennskier, hence I bring forth... porn?!? I'm a predictable bean like that.
> 
> (Whoever spots the Shakespeare reference first gets a fancy biscuit of their choice.)
> 
> Title from "Third Eye" by Florence + The Machine.

It's a seemingly regular Thursday, a day like any other, when Yennefer walks into a tavern, and instantly regrets any and all life choices which have led to this particular moment in time. Truly each and every one of them. It's already pretty dicey as it is, but this takes the proverbial cake in terms of the speed with which one can regret _everything_.

They make eye contact sooner than she'd like from all the way across the room as if it were a bad romance ballad from yesteryear. She frowns. A dignified retreat would've been her preference in dealing with this, but there you go.

Furthermore, she is, based on the fact that Jaskier is sauntering nearer, alone in such sentiments. Bard always was pretty dim.

"No," she says, instantly and rather more loudly than would be appropriate given they are now standing within socially-acceptable talking distance, but a definitive stance seems like the way to go here. Mixed messages tend to get messy.

Jaskier's face doesn't so much fall as jauntily careen into oblivion.

"Well," he haughtily exclaims, face puckered and lute sassily cocked by his hip.

That's the sort of people they are: she _says_ and he _exclaims_.

Sighing, she closes and reopens her eyes warily. He's still just standing there, and now the room behind him is a faintly blurry hive of activity while her eyes process light again. She considers closing them until she's certain he's taken a hint and left of his own accord, but it may take eternity for him to get there on his own. Clueing in isn't everyone's forte.

Exasperatedly she notices his doublet is an even gaudier colour than the last time they set eyes upon each other upon that wretched mountain less than a fortnight ago. Bard hasn't buggered off too far, it seems. Neither has she, but probably for very different reasons. As far as she's aware, he has nowhere in particular to be, except he's right here. Splendid.

Stating the obvious is usually beneath her, but, well, sometimes certain circumstances and certain company demand it. "You're still here." It's not a question.

He replies anyway. "Well, yes." He looks confused. Like a lost dog in a crowded street. Though vaguely less endearing than a dog by half.

She may be imagining things, but he appears less inclined to snark childishly this time around. Tiresome insults cling to her memory, snapping in dull tones at each other, trying to irritate and vex. And Yennefer is tired and thirsty and willing to compromise given how Jaskier is standing there vaguely expectantly and rather pitiful-looking all things considered.

"Go on," she nods at the room at large. "You're buying the first round."

*

Drinking the local ale was a mistake. A brilliant mistake. Bloody amazing. Would recommend it heartily were she fit to make recommendations at this time. Or stand. Definite veto on standing for the near future.

As it is, she's shed her cloak and Jaskier's down to his undershirt and the innkeeper has been side-eyeing their table for the better part of the last hour, possibly suspiciously close to asking the both of them to retreat for the evening. Which is plainly ridiculous as the good man carries excellent ale in his very fine establishment of which all should partake, especially the two of them. Obviously she snubs her nose and magnanimously accepts another refill from the bar wench after a pertinent amount of refusals. Extending hospitality can so very easily go to a host's head.

It makes sense they must ultimately engage a room for the night, and they must somehow make it up to it at some point, because Yennefer has vague recollections of much too many stairs and stubborn keys refusing to open locks on the first dozen tries and Jaskier being a rowdy little shit while deep in his cups. There may have been a stabbing or two during at least one rowdy argument, she can't properly recall, though a giggle threatens to bubble up at the very idea of it.

They manage to throw off their clothes, or their shoes at the very least, before falling gracelessly onto the bed. She falls asleep between being thankful the ceiling has stopped spinning and considering searching the floor for her discarded cloak.

*

It's the middle of the night, not yet nearing dawn, when she snaps awake, eyes bleary, craving water enough to be content to drown in it were that solely on offer.

As it is, their chambermaid must have filled and brought a wide-brimmed flagon of fresh water at some point after their bursting into the room earlier in the night and now for Yennefer doesn't recall any breakable objects being within the bed's vicinity, if only because they would have hardly survived. Silently thankful, she snatches it from the nightstand to down half of it in one go. A snore from behind her on the bed nearly has her dropping it, but she recovers swiftly, placing it back on the nightstand and turning to watch Jaskier sniffle and shift around before returning to an uneventful and mercifully silent sleep.

She considers pushing him out of the bed on principle alone, but he seems peaceful enough, what he can see of him in the little light streaming in from outside, unlikely to cause further disturbance until he fully wakes. Besides, flinging him off the bed would surely rouse him, and she's very far from ready to listen to his inevitable yapping. The dog comparisons are mighty regardless of circumstance.

With a yawn she settles in and returns to her own sleep, only to be jostled awake shortly thereafter by Jaskier reaching over her for the rest of the water. The dark outside has turned to dawn breaking.

Her mouth tastes like rotting raisins and her right arm is asleep. Not exactly idealised beauty sleep. It's a comfort to consider Jaskier must feel far worse for wear. Factually, it's entirely likely she can hold her drink far better than him.

"Ah. You're alive," she mutters while staring perplexedly at their ceiling. Its aesthetic value has plummeted now that it's completely stationary.

Jaskier makes a gurgling sound into the dregs of the water for a concerningly-long moment. He finally manages, "Seems so." After a beat of silence, he adds, "You haven't chopped me into messes yet, I see."

"Not worth the trouble."

"Ah."

That seems to be the end of it, only within seconds the flagon hits the floor by the bed and bounces several times before rolling presumably beneath the table by the door.

"Uh."

She sighs. "Our landlord will hardly love you for it. It's barely dawn." Out of the corner of her eye, she catches sight of him bending over the side of the bed, and then hears undoubtedly futile scrabbling along the floor before he returns to sitting upright on the bed, presumably having abandoned his search for the flagon. "Mind you don't step on it later and break your neck."

"Unlikely," he muses, vaguely unconcerned and markedly resigned to his fate.

Must be the early hour, barely an hour at all, but she's yet to feel compelled to kick him in any sensitive areas.

"Hmm," he tries to inadvertently spoil it. "This is nice."

It's not the worst, she'll grant him that.

"You know what's missing?" She's the one musing now, it appears. "There's something, ah."

"What?" She sneaks a glance, but his eyes have seemingly not left the opposite wall.

"Cocks. _A_ cock. Singular."

"I've got one," he mutters, sounding cheerily surprised yet excited at the notion.

"I'm rather fond of those," she concedes. "It's the people they're sometimes attached to which give me trouble."

"Yeah," Jaskier muses, "I get that."

Well, then.

But, before either can make a move, he says, "Uh," which sounds like a no.

"Well?" she probes, a tad impatiently. She'd like a definite answer there, thanks, at least to know one way or the other whether she's barking up the wrong tree.

"Feels like a trap, is all," he settles on eventually.

"It's not." It's actually all very simple, but their history does, she freely must admit, lend itself to generating present mutual suspicion. "Unless you're the trap."

He glances in her general direction over the crest of his shoulder. "Hardly." He sounds mildly offended and very nonplussed. She smiles faintly, then drags him back to a more horizontal position back on the bed.

His mouth is fuller than it would casually appear, tasting satisfyingly of cool water and not much else other than leftover sleep. Jaskier's a good kisser, Yennefer thinks, mostly disgusted but still into it. It occurs to her it's going to be _that way_ between them for the entirety of whatever this is. With that in mind, she pushes at his shoulders until he's flat on his back, and then she straddles at his torso where it'd be easiest to reach his mouth again. His hands grip her hips instantly, but seemingly more to steady her than to guide her any which way.

She bores of it soon. But his tongue is clever enough it might serve her well. So she rolls them over, clutching at his shoulders, pushing them down once he's hovering over her.

Yennefer has rarely thought so hard at someone to catch a hint. Fortunately, it only takes a couple of beats. It's far too early for an anatomy lesson.

Jaskier blinks twice before ducking his head. Leaning on her elbows for a better view, she watches as he makes room for himself between her thighs and her pushed-aside skirts. Tempting as it would be to make a pointed comment about needing direction or a map, it turns out the ridiculous little bard might not be as utterly lost in this as he seems to be in most things.

The undersides of her knees brush his temples when he first goes down. He noses at the side of her cunt like a useless cat, but quickly gets down to business, which, in this particular case, seems to mean pressing half-open lips to her clit while two of his fingers drag up and down her slit before finally pushing in to the second knuckle slowly but firmly. He draws them out to spread the incipient wetness around, then dips back in farther than before to curl them while his tongue pokes at her clit, exploratory though not tentative in the least, until he finally presses in and licks her and sucks steadily, a muscle jumping in her thigh on a particularly tight suck.

It's fast all of a sudden, but that's good in itself. Her bodice has been on all night, too constricting by half when she's half-upright, but delightfully tight when she drops fully onto her back and allows him to get to it, thighs splaying farther apart for him to shoulder his way closer. His other palm snakes beneath her to help push her hips up to thrust against his face with greater ease. She buries both hands into his hair, but there's little guiding to be done. She enjoys pulling at the strands more, fisting thick clumps of it and testing the roots. On a rough, merciless yank he moans against her and sucks harder, two fingers becoming three and gaining momentum. She comes leg-shakingly hard around his curled knuckles, drenching his face enough that when she bucks up one final time faint squelching noises fill the room.

His face moves away presumably to allow for far easier breathing, though her fingers still clutch at his hair and his face is close enough to her cunt the tip of his tongue is inching its way inside her soon enough.

This time around she does guide him, mostly to ensure it doesn't become too much too soon, but he allows himself to be guided beautifully, even though his scalp must be aching with the way she's pulling and pushing, sometimes not so much to incite movement as to feel him moaning against her. He finishes her with a long, dirty-handed suck on her clit, tight and unrelenting.

"Well," she breathes. Her lungs feel as if they're somewhere near her throat. Her thighs are dripping, overheated and slick.

When he straightens to bring his knees beneath him, her hands drop from his head to the laces on his trousers. She just now notices that his gaudy doublet, which must have certainly gone the way of her cloak last night, has thankfully failed to reappear. His undershirt is loose at the collar, chest hair peeking out. There's light enough in the room now she catches hints of a faint flush disappearing down his chest. It's not an unpleasant sight, made a great deal more pleasant when she draws him out to find him already hard and leaking, and, thus, thoughts of doublets and cloaks flicker away as she busies her fingers with spreading pre-come around the head and down to the root.

She finds out his cockhead is nicely thick as it slips in, curved at an angle where he can thrust upwards shallowly and thumb her clit at the same time, and still make her feel it up and down her thighs. Jaskier's eyes are tightly shut, holding her with a shaky palm against him, but he doesn't tease, neither her with his fingers or himself. She reaches for him again to sink fingers at the back of his head and pull, and he gives a couple of more thrusts before he spills inside her, a right mess when he slips out straight away to put his mouth back on her, no nonsense and hard for long minutes until she near kicks him in the head this time around when she comes.

Evidently, they _must_ pass out once more after _that_.

*

The innkeeper wakes them again with his incessant knocking as if he is personally invested in their leaving the premises as soon as possible. It's entirely likely there may have been some measure of stabbings the evening before, then, potentially initiated by either one or both of them, but it's a fleeting thought only. Yennefer is more than willing to make the man's immediate dreams come true by not only not setting him on fire for the audacity but also by departing as soon as her clothing is properly righted.

Idly, she's aware Jaskier is doing something similar behind her on the other side of her room, but she's enthusiastic about not prolonging this more than necessary. After bundling herself up in her newly-recovered cloak, she deems it time to say her farewells. Silently. By being geographically not there anymore.

Unfortunately, the whole not taking hints thing turns out to be a recurring problem when, as she makes leave of the inn, she hears a muffled swear from behind her. Her mistake is turning around to check whether Jaskier has somehow indeed managed to break his neck.

She finds him half in the fauna outside the inn, lute and satchel dangling out of the way of where the rest of him fell.

"Uh, I was about to offer my artistic talents for your present employment, seeing as I've no immediate plans. Um," he finishes blushingly, evidently disgruntled by his current undignified situation judging by the way he is examining the most proper way to regain some measure of dignity, however minimal.

A fleeting thought, something about the ease with which a bard may be acquired, passes through her mind, but it's hardly worth dwelling on at this stage.

Instead, she decisively states, "I recommend exiting the bushes in the first place." She considers him critically for a long time while he rights himself as best he can, which amounts to ultimately lacking completely in dignity for the sake of being vertical once more, though he doesn't appear particularly concerned by it, small branches and leaves stuck in unlikely places on his person not giving him much bother.

Finally, she sniffs, turning on her heel, and walks off, throwing over her shoulder only a mildly irritated, "Go on then."

He'll catch up eventually.

**Author's Note:**

> Popped _this_ cherry, yeah.
> 
> I'm afraid to ask for con-crit. You lot would probably decimate me, I'm sure. Uh, be gentle if you so do, please??? But, also, I would appreciate any comments in general and/or kudos, of course. I love me some kudos. *runs away*
> 
> (And yes, I headcanon'd a complete lack of underwear. I do what I want.)
> 
> Tumblr: [rhubarbdreams](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
